


Drabbles and Bits

by CommonEvilMastermind



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, ballgown, engineer lavellan, plaideweave, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5560087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pieces of Solavellan fic that are less than a thousand words, bundled together for your enjoyment. Exploring relationships, goings on in Skyhold, and other effects of the Inquisition.</p><p>Trigger Warnings: self-harm, panic attack. Relevant chapters marked with a *</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Explosion

It was then that the Undercroft exploded.

Solas bolted out the rotunda and hurled himself down the steps, taking them three at a time. He burst into the undercroft to find it drowning in acrid purple smoke. “Inquisitor!” he bellowed, then coughed. “Inquisitor?!”

Movement to his left. He ran towards it, tripping down unseen steps and landing on top of something soft. “Ow.” it said.

“Inquisitor!” The smoke was clearing now, he could almost make out her form as he scrambled to his knees, hands frantically searching over her for any sign of injury. “What has happened are you hurt?”

“I think somebody just landed on me,” she coughed. “Dagna?”

“Here!” The dwarf called, chipper as ever. “It seems the runestone couldn’t contain the excess power!”

“Obviously,” the Inquisitor wheezed. “My ribs. Solas, you’re _heavy.”_

He scowled back, unsure whether to be angry or relieved. Possibly both. Instead he brushed a bit of soot from her nose with a small huff. “I believe you told me you would be taking extra safety precautions in your experimentation.”

“We did!” She used him to clamber to her feet, still unsteady. “That’s probably why the walls are still standing. Dagna?”

“It worked!” the dwarf shrieked from the ruins of the bench.

“It did?!” the Inquisitor lurched in that direction. “But the backlash-“

“Was the catalyst we needed to get the energy to focus in the rune-“

The door to the undercroft slammed open once more, Cassandra leading the way followed by Varric, Josephine, and a crowd of curious hangers-on. “What has happened? Inquisitor, are you injured?”

“Cassandra, it worked!” The Inquisitor whooped. She grabbed Solas’ hands and swung him around in a lurching, madcap dance. “It worked, it worked! We made a better fire rune. This one is five times more powerful – take that, you stupid Tevinter bastards. They said it couldn’t be done, but we did it! It worked, it worked!”

Solas planted his feet and let the Inquisitor spin around him into his chest. “Whooo,” she cheered tiredly, wrapping her arms around his frame. “Solas, you’re good for holding on to.”

“And when was the last time you slept?” He addressed the top of her head.

“What’s sleeping?”

“And ate?”

“I eat food,” she argued after a significant pause.

He sighed, long-suffering, and picked her up bodily. She squirmed in protest. “I am taking the Inquisitor to her chambers,” he told Cassandra firmly. “And you, perhaps, will have a discussion with Dagna about the value of Skyhold remaining in one piece?”

“I have a better idea. I’ll just give Harritt the key to the stores of rune-making supplies.”

“Cheating!” Ellara hollered as Solas started carrying her upstairs. “I’ll just get Cole to pick the lock!”

“Cole wouldn’t help you.” Solas reminded her.

“Cole wouldn’t help me,” she agreed. “Sera?”

“Is invested in having neither you nor Dagna blown to tiny pieces on the Undercroft floor.”

“Drat.” She buried her face in his collarbone. She wasn’t particularly tiny, but Solas carried her up the stairs as if she was no more troublesome than a feather. “You’re really nice,” she told him.

“You have been up for too long.”

“You… are probably right, sure. Let me down, I can walk.”

“Or I can carry you.”

“Solas-“

“Perhaps I enjoy it,” he said with a small smirk. Well then. She let him carry her all the way to her door, the very tips of her ears slightly flushed.

He set her down and looked at her sternly. “Sleep,” he said.

“Yes, yes.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him absently before disappearing into her rooms. A simple kiss, just a press of her lips to his own, as natural and easy as breathing.

He held his hand to his mouth, as if to keep that impression there for a very long time.


	2. Ballgown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is ogling and a pretty dress

“I don’t want them!” Ellara sputtered. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“One usually wears gowns such as these,” Josephine responded dryly.

“What, every day? There are more gowns here than there are days in the month! Why couldn’t they have sent something useful, like wheat or cotton or something?”

“The noble families of Orlais seem to have determined that your choice of outfit for the Winter Palace was due to an unfortunate lack of gowns,” Josie said, hiding a smile. “They are simply looking to supply you with a suitable wardrobe.”

“For what?” Ellara said, scandalized. She held up something that seemed more ruffle than actual clothing. “Fighting demons? How are you supposed to fight demons in this many ribbons, Josie?”

“With great care, one assumes.” The Antivian ambassador watched the Inquisitor with a keen eye. “Have you ever worn an outfit such as these?”

“Yes,” Ellara drawled. “They’re all the rage among the Dalish. We wear them to herd halla.”

Josephine’s eyes glinted.

An hour or two went by. Solas was passing outside the door to Josephine’s office when he saw Varric and Dorian in the tiny hallway, muttering to each other.

“Chuckles!” the dwarf hissed. “Come here!”

“Master Tethras?” Solas said warily.

“Varric thinks the Ambassador is murdering the Inquisitor. I maintain that they are merely getting drunk.” Dorian straightened from where he had his ear pressed flat to the door. “There seem to be an alarming amount of giggles.”

“Josie is giggling. I knew that woman was secretly mad.” Varric argued.

“We want you to knock on the door and ask for the Inquisitor,” Dorian said. “So we can see what’s going on.”

“And possibly stop a horrible murder!” Varric interjected.

“And possibly stop a horrible murder, yes.” Dorian agreed.

Solas snorted. “And what reason do I have for interrupting the Inquisitor?”

“I don’t know,” Varric handwaved. “Some elfy business. Come on, Chuckles, we have a bet. Loser has to take night-watch on the road for a week.”

“Far be it for me to interfere with such serious business,” Solas said dryly. “I believe you two are capable of determining such things by yourselves.”

“I told you he wouldn’t do it,” Varric told Dorian grumpily.

“It was worth a shot. We’ll just have to be forthright.” Dorian rapped firmly on the door to Josephine’s office. “Inquisitor? Are you in there? If so, are you being horribly murdered, or just drunk?”

A familiar shriek met his inquiry. “No, no, no – Josie, don’t you dare-!”

The door swung open and Josephine stood there, grinning. “Dorian, Varric, and… Solas, hello.” The ambassador’s eyes danced with mischief.

“Josie I will kill you I will literally-“

“Do come in. The Inquisitor was just trying on some gifts we received from Orlais.”

_“Josephine!”_

“My, my.” Dorian stepped through the doorway. “Aren’t you quite the sight?”

“One word, Dorian-“

“My dear, you look absolutely stunning.”

The Inquisitor snorted, still out of view. Varric stepped in the office with a low whistle. Solas followed, almost unable to help himself.

She was, indeed, stunning.

He was more used to seeing her dressed in traveling clothes, no other accessory but mud and her mage’s staff. It was there, on the road, he had learned to love her – her eyes, quick in the dark, her hands, steady and sure. The way she fussed over each of them in turn. How she grinned smugly, ichor-stained, after closing a rift. The soft litany of curse words she poured out alongside bandit’s blood.

He had fallen in love with a woman, cold and scraped and stained with mud, soot-streaked by a campfire. The person in front of him was nearly unrecognizable.

Her hair glowed, fire made form, piled on top of her head, pinned with gold and emeralds. More emeralds glinted in her earlobes, drew the eye to the delicate curve of her neck, the sweeping line of her collarbone. The dress skimmed her shoulders, sleeves the barest drape of fabric, the neckline scandalously low. The bodice was deep green velvet, embroidered with gold thread, chips of emerald, beads of peridot – when she moved, it was as if the sunshine was filtering down through the forest. At her waist, the skirts opened in sweeping layers of gossamer fabric, each a different shade of green, falling like leaves.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

“Stop ogling,” her familiar voice snapped. “Yes, I know, it’s very funny, ha ha, Ellara’s in a dress and looks a fool-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dorian said. “You obviously have not seen yourself in a mirror. I would show you, but what glass in Thedas could handle both of us at once? It would break, incapable of reflecting our glory.”

“You clean up alright, Trouble,” Varric nodded. “Why didn’t we take you to Halamsharal looking like that?”

“No.” Ellara and Solas said simultaneously.

“See?” Ellara cleared her throat, unreadable under the gold filigree of her mask. “Solas thinks I look a fool too.”

“Solas thinks no such thing,” he countered, tucking his hands behind his back. “But were you to appear at the Winter Palace looking like that, no work would have been done at all. The entire court would have found themselves much too… distracted.”

“Not to mention trying to climb up a terrace in this get-up.” She swirled to demonstrate. The layers of her skirt flowed around her like the wind, revealing the most perfect set of feet, bound in cream-colored wrappings.

Solas was suddenly grateful for the loose fall of his tunic. It was not the first time.

“You really don’t think I look foolish?” she challenged, but there was a deeper worry in her brown eyes, the fire there dimmed.

“ _You outshine those from days of old. Were my people to see you now, they would name you goddess, raise you to heights that you never dreamed. They would not be wrong – and I did not believe in gods.”_ he told her in his language, the ancient words flowing off his tongue. She did not, could not understand, but the tips of her ears burned crimson. In the common tongue, he added. “You look magnificent.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.         

He took a single step towards her, intent unknown, when Josephine clapped her hands together. “We must show Cassandra. And Leliana too. And Vivienne-“

“Josephine-!” The Antivian ambassador whirled out of the room laughing, the Inquisitor lunging behind her, skirts flowing in her wake. Varric followed the commotion, chuckling. Dorian stopped to clap a hand to Solas’ shoulder.

Solas watched them go, mouth dry. What had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From malsweeklychallenge.tumblr.com: "I don't want it!"


	3. Mudquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting in the mud

“Well,” Ellara said, lying on her back in the mud. Fluffy clouds were scuttling above. “That was fun.”

“Was that what it was?” Dorian asked wearily somewhere to her left. “Good to know. For a moment there, I thought it was absolutely horrible. But it was actually fun! Who would have thought?”

“Sass, so much sass,” Ellara grumbled. “What did I ever do to deserve so much sass?” She thought about getting up and then didn’t..

“They say a leader is one who leads by example,” Solas offered from somewhere close by. He sounded completely worn out. “Perhaps there are clues to be found in your own demeanor.”

She considered throwing some mud at him, but what was the point? They were all covered in the gunk anyways. The rift they had just closed, of course, had been home to several despair demons who refused to go back into the fade. And the rift was in the middle of a freshly-plowed field. And it had been raining.

“I have come to a conclusion.” Ellara levered herself upright. The mud squelched as it tried to keep her. “We are now known as the mud-quisition. I am the Mudquisitor, herald of the dirt, savior of Thedas.”

“Oh, is that you under there?” Dorian asked. He was lying on top of a mound of dirt and muscle that could only be the Iron Bull. One enormous hand was stroking his back, spreading the mud around even more. Dorian did not seem to care. “I thought that lump was Solas.”

“No, that lump is Solas.” Ellara waved a hand to where the other elf was leaning against a fencepost. “The mud is shinier on his head.”

“Ah yes, bald jokes. Just what this situation needs,” the apostate grumbled. He was trying to wipe off his grimy face with an even grimier handkerchief. It wasn’t working very well.

Ellara regarded them for a minute. They were a sorry sight. “I am going to the river,” she declared. “And I am going to get clean.”

“You are going to freeze,” Dorian corrected.

“Am not. It’s a lovely day.” The weak spring sunshine was doing its level best to warm them. There was only a slight breeze, and even that wasn’t too chilly.

“Maybe to a Dalish barbarian,” Dorian said. “For civilized folk, it is the type of day to go ask those farmers for the loan of a copper washbasin and some water that’s actually warm.”

“They’ll more likely send you to the druffalo pond,” Ellara snorted. She felt around in the mud for her staff and used it to haul herself to her feet. “I’m going to the river. Solas? Bull?”

“’m good,” the Qunari said, patting Dorian on the back. “Don’t die.”

“I believe I shall join you,” Solas got to his feet, wavered, steadied. “It would not due for you to wander alone.”

“And you look like a swamp monster.”

“That as well,” he conceded.

“Let’s go.” She started walking.

“It’s the other way-“

“Right. Let’s go.”

The river was thankfully close. It was honestly more of a cheerful stream, babbling along over worn rocks. Ellara regarded it, then waded in and sat down.

Solas regarded her from the bank. “How is the water?”

“You know?” Ellara said, frowning. “It’s really horribly cold.” Ice-melt cold. Her legs were numb already.

The other elf snorted and knelt on the bank, wetting his handkerchief and applying that to himself instead. Ellara sat in the river and watched him. How the rivulets of water slid over his skin. Watched him scrub the mud from those long, elegant fingers. The river-water took away the patina of violence that covered him, revealing his callused feet, the smoothness of his head, the faint patterns of his freckles.

Ellara adored his freckles. Her favorite daydream included kissing each and every one.

“Inquisitor? Inquisitor!” She looked up only to get lost in his eyes, deep blue and full of storms. “I believe you have spent long enough in the water.”

“Hmm?” This close, she could clearly see the scar over his brow, the wonderful little divot in his chin.

Solas said something impolite in Elvhen and grabbed her under both arms, attempting to haul her out. Not an easy feet, considering she was sopping wet, in full armor, and sitting in a slippery riverbed. He may have dropped her once or twice, which she thought was hilarious.

It was only when they both lay dripping on the bank that she realized just how incredibly cold she was. Solas kept a steady litany of curses under his breath, hauling her over to a nearby tree. He sat against it, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled on the fade. A barrier sprung up around them, as familiar now as her mother’s favorite song. Solas focused again and the surrounding air started to warm. She started to warm. Solas was now sopping wet too, but he was delightfully solid and even more warm.

She struggled out of her outer coat, wanting to get closer, fighting him most of the way. Freed of it, she turned, draped her legs over his, wrapped her arms around his chest, lay against his collarbone. He muttered grumpily into her ear, half spells and half admonishments about Inquisitors who sat in ice-cold mountain streams when battle-weary and nearly got hypothermia. He was solid underneath her, voice resonating in her ears, arms holding her too tightly to be just a mere practicality. And he was so wonderfully warm.

When Dorian and The Iron Bull found them, she was warm and dry and sound asleep, tucked under Solas’ chin. Try as he might, even the elven apostate could not look displeased about this situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from malsweeklychallenge.tumblr.com: Mud
> 
> Find my fic on tumblr at elvhen-inquisition! Send me prompts and I'll write 'em for you ~ <3


	4. It's a trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the dungeons from Skyrim, my first love

“So that means…” Ellara pulled the lever and gears startled whirling. Then iron bars began to descend from the ceiling. “It’s a fucking trap!” Varric yelled, whirling and running as fast as he could. Something crashed together behind him. He looked back.

Ellara was on the other side of the iron bars while he, Solas, and Cassandra were on this side. The correct side. Which was interesting, because when he had last looked, Solas had been the one in the rear.

“That did not go according to plan,” Ellara said thoughtfully, picking herself up from a pile of old bones.

“Really? I never would have guessed.” Varric muttered. He walked back over and studied the lever that should have opened the way further into the dungeon, but instead had trapped their Inquisitor. “Who built this place, anyways?”

“Elves,” Ellara said dryly. “Paranoid ancient elves. Who seem to have been smarter than we are.”

“Not a particularly difficult feat, it seems.” Solas said under his breath. Everyone ignored him.

Cassandra strode up to the bars. “You are trapped, then?”

“Seems like.” Ellara shuffled around her new cell, a skull or two. “At least I have company.”

Solas, lips pressed in a tight line, was casting spell after spell at the bars. “It is magically sealed as well.”

“Bugger.” Ellara sat down on the floor. “So you all go back to the camp, get reinforcements, come back here, pry me out. Easy as that.”

 “No,” said three voices simultaneously. Cassandra continued. “The very last thing we are going to do is leave you here alone in an ancient dungeon-“

“Temple,” Ellara corrected

“-temple? With this many traps, explosives, and zombies?” Cassandra shook her head. “The last thing we are going to do is abandon you here.”

“Fine.” Ellara tugged on a piece of her hair, thinking. “Cassandra and Varric, you go. Solas stays here – maybe we’ll figure out how to un-trigger the trap.”

The three exchanged glances. “Don’t you hate it when her plans make the most sense?” Varric said.

“A sure sign something is wrong with the world,” Cassandra agreed. “Very well. We will return as soon as we are able.”

Once they were gone, Solas glared at the Inquisitor. “There was no need to exchange places with me.”

“Was so,” Ellara said. “If you were in here, Varric would have insisted on staying with you while Cass and I got reinforcements. He would have wanted to get out all your secrets, and when we came back, he’d be a little dwarf fireball. I’m only concerned about him, really.”

“Of course.” Solas rubbed his forehead. “It is good to know you think so little of my self-control.”

“Have you met Varric?” Ellara dug under the pile of bones that was keeping her company. “Man’s a master of wearing away self-control. Though it could have been worse, it could have been Sera. There.”

The iron bars receded into the ceiling. Ellara stood free, looking smug.

Solas blinked. “You knew the mechanism to get free all along?”

“These bones aren’t from people who died in here,” Ellara said. “There are like, five skulls but only two pelvic bones. It was an obvious display meant to spook you into not thinking. Come on.”

She led the way further into the temple. Solas followed, irate, on her heels.

“And the purpose of misleading our allies and stranding us both down here, an unexplored location that has been filled with ancient traps?”

“I wanted to show you something. Don’t fuss, Solas. Besides, Cass and Varric wouldn’t like this next bit.”

“What next bit- oh.”

Ellara wrenched open a stone doorway to reveal a riot of colors – twisting vines danced up the walls, their flowers bright red, large as dinner plates. Lush foliage covered the ground, the stone that surrounded them, going up and up to an overhead sliver of impossibly blue sky. The Elvhen must have directed a river into the space, for it crashed down from above, a crystal-clear waterfall that sunk into a series of reflective pools. Just below the surface, a rainbow of fish danced.

Solas blinked, and bright sparks of color that he had mistaken for flowers took flight, protesting the intrusion into their space. They were birds and not-birds, fish and not-fish – he took a breath, and the air all but danced inside his skin.

What was this place?

“I have no idea.” He must have spoken aloud, for Ellara answered with a wicked grin. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? Cole and I spent hours talking to the fish. They’re actually part spirit, can you believe it? The Veil here is so thin-“

Yes, that was it exactly. Somehow, the Veil here was so thin that spirits were still able to slip across without a second thought. That’s why it felt like home. A little piece of Elvhenan, someplace that had survived the destruction of the world-

“Solas?” Ellara was peering into his face.

“Yes.” He started back to himself. “Yes, it is quite wondrous.”

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d like it-“

“We should get back to the others.” He cut her off rudely, abruptly, slamming away the feelings that threatened to overcome him. He couldn’t. He turned, striding away. Leaving her there.

What he did not notice was his reflection in the mirror pools – a twisted figure, small and shrunken, howling in despair. In another, a wolf-wraith, full of anger, consuming the world. A third showed him almost as he was, clad in gold and white. Weary. Smiling.

Solas, blinded, did not see these things.

Ellara Lavellan did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from malsweeklychallenge: a trap
> 
> me + fic at elvhen-inquisition.tumblr.com!


	5. Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her hand hurts

“Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Solas, it’s fine.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Solas-“

“Inquisitor.”

“Solas-!”

“Ellara.”

She gave him her stupid hand. Which was fine. And not hurting that much. He just worried. And noticed. Noticed too much, when it was sparking, the pain traveling up her arm, into her head. Noticed her squeezing her palm, noticed her trying to flick it away.

Noticed how red her ears got when she put her hand into his strong palms.

Stupid Solas.

“How long as it been paining you this time?”

She squirmed, then stopped under his gaze. “Three days.”

“And what started it?”

She sighed. “A panic attack – which is fine. And rather understandable given the situation.”

He huffed out a breath, which meant he did not disagree. His magic – too soothing, too comforting, too kind, flowed through her. Twined into her bones, smoothed the ragged edges, blunted the pain.

“You can always come to me,” he told her softly. She met his eyes and wished she hadn’t. There was something growing there.

Blushing, she turned away. “I didn’t want-“

His hands on her shoulders. The brush of lips on her hair. “You can always come to me.”

He walked away, bare feet making no sound on the rough stone. She reached up, touched the place where he had kissed her, pressed her fingers to her lips.

Damn. She hadn’t planned on falling in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from malsweekly challenge: give me your hand  
> you're supposed to finish these things in under five minutes. this is the only one that even got close to that
> 
> find me + fic at elvhen-inquisition.tumblr.com! Tell me you're from here and I'll write something just for you


	6. Plaideweave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ellara makes armor and we get a glimpse at Troll!Lavellan

“Uugh!” Dorian cried out when he saw his new set of armor. “Gods, what is that _thing?_ ”

“They’re robes!” Ellara flourished them at the scowling mage. He flinched. “Robes, Dorian! Dagna and I made them for you. Look, the weave helps you resist electricity while the leather blocks cold and ice-spells. The fur on the cuffs-“

“It’s _plaid!”_ The Tevinter mage cried. “Yellow! And plaid! It’s a travesty!”

“Plaideweave blocks electricity!” She frowned at him. “What is your _problem?_ ”

“Maker preserve us, you are no Herald,” he spat. “Or if you are, you’re a Herald of cataclysm, not Andraste!”

“Look, you,” Ellara loomed over him, despite being a number of inches shorter. How on earth did she do that? “If you can find better armor, great. Go for it. But we are going into blight-knows-where to fight blight-knows-what, and it’s all under the control of an ancient Tevinter magister with delusions of godhood! I will have all of you properly outfitted, so help me Dorian.”

“I _will_ find my own armor,” he spat at her. “And then I will show you just how horribly awfully wrong you are.”

“You do that,” she muttered darkly and left, leaving the offending garment on the chair behind her.

Dorian sighed dramatically, then bristled as someone below tried to turn a laugh into an unconvincing cough. “Just you wait, elf!” he called. “I’m certain she has something horrible and Dalish for you!”

“I can only pray that the Herald have mercy,” Solas called back, seemingly unconcerned.

“Good luck,” Dorian grumped.

Dorian looked. And looked. But, truth be told, there was no better armor to be found. Dagna was a force of nature, trained in both Dwarven smith craft and Circle enchantment. Ellara contributed with disgusting enthusiasm, a wild imagination, and a propensity to drag her friends all across the map in search of the rarer components required.

She was making fun of him on purpose. Sera – Sera who played with mud and _bees_ – got a stunning tunic of dark blue velvet. The Iron Bull wore leather straps with deep crimson cloth and looked absolutely _devastating._ Solas was decked out in samite, Vivienne in a luxurious cream and even Cole – with that _hat_ – had a sky blue tunic with fennic fur trim.

She was tormenting him and it was absolutely horrible.

Dorian sulked in the library for a week before he went stir-crazy. The next morning when the party turned out at dawn – he hadn’t had to watch a sunrise for years before joined the Inquisition and he wasn’t pleased about starting now – he was standing in the courtyard in the blighted yellow plaid armor.

Ellara, to her credit, managed to bite back a smile. “Pay up,” she told The Iron Bull.

The Qunari snorted at her and counted out a sizable number of gold pieces. “So I was one day off. It happens.”

“You were betting on me?” Dorian sputtered, outraged.

“And you did not disappoint,” Ellara grinned at him. “Here.”

She pulled a package from the pile waiting to go into the saddlebags and tossed it to him. He peered at her suspiciously as he undid the linen wrap.

Dorian sucked in a breath. It was a tunic, creamy white with a storm gray undershirt and oaky leather straps. She had fashioned it in the Tevinter style – a high collar, sleeve covering one shoulder and enough buckles and straps to make Dorian’s heart ache.

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured. “I take back at least half of those horrible things I said about you.”

“The plaid one was prototype,” she told him, still with that infuriating grin. “We used that blighted fabric because we have quite the excess, then decided to play a little while I finished your armor.”

“I am not certain if I love you or despise you,” he told her frankly. “But I am going to go change.”

He stalked back into the castle, her laughter ringing in his ears. He forgave her as soon as he slipped the outfit on – she had lined it in royale sea silk, that delightful little minx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always have so much plaideweave...
> 
> elvhen-inquisition.tumblr.com. Send me your fic too!


	7. Panic*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor has a panic attack
> 
> TW for panic and self-harm

She wakes and the nightmare is lodged in the palm of her hand.

Green and cracking, it shoots through her bones. Lighting her up from the inside. Her breath is caught in her throat – chest heaving, stomach twisting, limbs shaking. The nightmare is real and it’s going to eat her alive.

She digs into the palm of her hand, frantic, scratching with nail-bitten fingers. _get it out get it out get it out._ She is nothing, nothing but the anchor – a vessel for green things, cracks in the world, cracks in the fade, cracking her hand, cracking her open. It will eat her alive and she will disappear, vanish, become nothing but pain and light and an empty shell where a woman once was _get it out get it out get it out get it out out_ she digs into her skin and the added pain is a counterpoint

she does not notice the bleeding, she has torn herself open, the red is just darkness against the green, spill enough and blot it out, _out, out, get it out of me_

her hands are caught in strong fingers, warm skin, a voice calmly brushing against her senses. _Breathe, vhenan._ She tries, but the air catches in her throat, coming too fast. Her heart is pounding, unsteady. Her breath is pounding, unsteady. Between his fingers the pain recedes but the anchor still flares green _get it out_

He pulls her hand to his face, cupping it against his cheek, drawing her eyes up, asking her to look at him. She does but her hand is bleeding, bleeding, she has ripped it open and his face is covered in blood no _no never again NO_ and she tears herself away, falling

on the floor, cold stone, crying, screaming, _no never again,_ pushing the nightmare into her chest, shielding the world from it shielding him from it the pain and the panic and it’s going to kill her here, tonight, she’s going to die, the two rhythms counterpoint, _get it out get it out_ , _no no never again,_ screaming in her chambers dying and insane and alone _never never never again-_

A wind whips through the room.

It’s freezing.

She pulls it into her lungs.

Then again.

For a while, all she can notice is the cold. The bitterness of the mountain air. Draws the breaths, deep, into her belly. In and out. Then again.

The wind rocks her gently, strokes her hair. Whispers in a broken voice _breathe, vhenan. Breathe._ Soft, pleading, like a prayer.

She wonders who the wind prays to.

Lavellan drifts. And she breathes.

She’s shaking – aftershocks, panic draining through tired limbs. Freezing wind in her bones means she’s alive. What a wonder. Alive again. She wonders if she will turn to ice, crystal and clear and cold forever.

Except the floor beneath her is warm, and her side is warm, tucked against a column of heat. When the cold gets too much she burrows into it. Feels it wrap around her. Warm. Safe.

She realizes she is not alone.

She realizes he is holding her in his arms. He is sitting on the floor and has drawn her into his lap, rocking back and forth, whispering. His voice is low and soft and broken.

She murmurs his name. He presses his lips to her forehead. Rises as if she is a child in his arms. Lays her in the bed and stretches out beside her, pulls up the covers, tucks her in tight.

She burrows into his arms. He knows when she has fallen asleep. She finally stops shaking.

She wakes into a dream. She is toasty warm, curled up against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and even. Only her nose is chilled – outside the covers, the winter wind is dancing.

She ducks her head under the blankets and dreams a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor baby. but sensory shocks (cold, strong smells, strong tastes) are really good for snapping you (me) out of panic attacks!
> 
> if you want to talk about solavellan, panic attacks, or anything else, you probably know where to find me: elvhen-inquisition.tumblr.ccom


	8. Murder on the Dance Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan fights to the rhythm of the rifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written as a song-fic prompt for anachromystic on tumblr. The song is Murder on the Dance Floor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

She heard no beat before the mark, no thrumming in her bones. Now the tempo threatens to undo her. Eyes wide dreaming, she lies awake, remembering the rush of the rhythm. Safety chafes, an unsettled itch, until she throws herself in saddle and makes her way like a woman drowning.

The rifts call, reaching, aching: the beat in her heart, in her head, in her bones. Dance, Inquisitor, the steps that beckon. Life and death are hip to hip, cheek to cheek. The demons wait – come dance, come dance. Let the world fall away. Step, counter step, whirl of fire, scrape of claws, never-ending snarl, scream. An ever-twisting melody. Don’t stop. No fear.

Dance.

But her companions? They trip. Step and slip. The rhythm breaks. The Veil stutters. Her blood pools red and the power goes away. After, she snarls at them and doesn’t know why.

Until the day that Solas leaves his library.

It’s a mission of some urgency – his friend, captured, needing help. She is getting used to saving people. The two of them and Cole: her spirit boy, steel and shadow. She thinks, sometimes, he hears the rhythm in the cutting of his blades.

At least, he does not trip her up as often as the rest of them.

She feels the echo in her heartbeat as they near the Plains. “What are you doing?” Solas shouts as she turns her hart, wheels away.

“A rift!” Cole says, his gray mare on her heels.

“We cannot stop,” the apostate spits, furious with worry.

“We cannot leave it,” she calls back. The beat of the rift washes into her veins: a poison lover, lyrium-call. The dance is not kind – if you stumble, you will bleed; if you fall you will die. It’s the only time she ever feels alive.

They come on the rift. It erupts, spitting demons on her grass, her earth, her sky. She grins and dismounts on a downbeat, icing the ground. A terror demon slips and Cole spins a knife into its chest. The dance begins.

This rift is a strong one, chaotic and wild. It pounds in her mind, unstoppable momentum. Demons scream their descant; magic makes the melody. She dances with the Fade. But the tempo only builds, rhythm rising until she cannot keep it, scrambles to stay upright.

She stumbles into a demon’s scream, right side weak, failing, falling –

Caught. Strong hands steady. Barrier borrows time. “Do not let them overwhelm you,” he says, and she feels it through his skin. Solas’ heart beats to the rhythm of the rift, to the rhythm of the Fade. His hands are steady, his eyes are wild.

“Yes,” she grins, and they’re moving together. The dance is in their bones. She knows without knowing: where he will step, the line of his staff, the curve of his hands. They support each other without words. Melody and harmony, support and attack. Their magic is music and they are the rhythm, the drumbeat, the dance.

She closes the rift in a clashing crescendo, and the silence is sudden. Stunning. They look to each other, matching smiles, wild eyes.

But he takes a breath, turns away. When he looks again, his mask is set “We must go,” he says. Mounts his horse.

She blinks, off-balance. He turns and rides away. He does not see her half-feral grin.

She has found her partner. They will dance.

 


End file.
